I left Mother twice.
First, I left her cloistered womb. I didn’t want to go, but it was my birthday; and she insisted. I never would have left if she hadn’t pushed me out the door. It ended in tears for both of us.
Mother took me to a house with empty spaces. We lived alone and together. One by one the years came, filling all the rooms, crowding me until I had to leave. I opened the door by myself and left without a tear.
I kissed Mother once, the day she left her house. She locked the door and left without her gloves, though her hands were cold. I cried that day; she didn’t say a word.
I wore Mother’s gloves to fill the empty spaces. They helped me face the cold, and finally grasp what she did.
I missed Mother the day I lost her glove on my way home. The right one disappeared; I only have the left.
I missed Mother more that day than all the days before.